The moment he shouted the charge in Ancestor's name, Altais had already prepared himself to die in battle.
Though such a choice was unworthy of a prince and showed a disregard for the greater picture, as he charged forward, he instead felt a sense of release.
Even if he died in this battle, it was still far better than watching, in that nightmare, the great fire rise, the royal capital fall, and the people cry out in despair.
At least, at this moment, he had witnessed evil crossing the border.
For Cormyr, for his people!
Bearing the kingdom's sword, leading the soldiers who defended the land!
With blood boiling and hatred burning, the grief of perishing alongside the enemy!
And racing toward that blood-soaked dawn!
Then, as if in a trance, he truly saw the dawn. He saw the reinforcements promised by that bronze dragon, diving down from Thunderpeak in the east with the first rays of the rising sun, toward the endless Demon Army stretching across the Dalelands!
This should have been immensely uplifting, yet Altais did not relax in the slightest. Instead, an inexplicable heaviness and guilt weighed upon him.
Because there were simply too few of them.
Though a Spellcaster's own teleportation magic transporting an army of over a thousand was already something beyond anything he had seen in his life, compared to the Demon Army now filling the entire Dalelands, it was no more than a cup of water against a cartload of firewood.
However—
"Still, thank you for coming to our aid. It is only a pity that, because of delayed intelligence, it seems we are destined to die here together today."
Altais murmured. Ever since falling from the city wall, his head had been ringing nonstop; only the sword in his hand continued to